


there's plenty of time to sleep when we die

by rightsidethru



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), Iron Man (Comic), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: (Tony has dubbed it so), Clint is a BAMF, Clint is sassypants, IronHawk - Freeform, M/M, Tony is a BAMF, and Tony has claimed Clint as 'his stuff', baby light my fire, hurts so good., like a hurricane-whirlwind, love these two so hard., parallels and considerations, srsly gaiz. the feeeeeels, they fit like puzzle pieces, they totally steam up the windows, this pairing has sucked me in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-12-13
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:09:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rightsidethru/pseuds/rightsidethru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>IronHawk drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. don't take my stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Clint is kidnapped. And Tony is pissed.

The ceiling crumbled and fell, chunks of concrete tumbling through the air as the one-time air base (now turned HYDRA headquarters) shook with explosion after explosion after explosion--the barrage coming without stop. Light burned red and shifted to orange and blue and blindingly white as the flames fanned hotter and higher.

Clint cursed, rough and angry and dirty, as he tucked and rolled to avoid one particularly large piece of wall, just barely able to miss being hit, and the archer just barely managed to hold onto his touch-and-go luck as he kept one-two steps ahead of the debris. However, twisting and falling and almost seeming to dance: it was mid-roll that he heard the ever familiar whine of Iron Man's repulsors.

Knowing instinctively that came from a knowledge, a skin-touch- _need_ , of Tony that he had been hard-pressed at times to win: of knowing how the arc reactor tasted like beneath his lips, of how the dark-haired man looked with eyes intent upon mapping out Clint's body, of what Tony looked like, too exhausted to actually make it to bed and yet still leaning unconsciously into the blonde's light touch as Clint came to check on him down in the workshop: 

It was all of those things and so much more that had Clint tensing his thighs, and he jumped as high and as far as he could. Relying on training that he had originally gotten doing acrobatic work in the circus and had since sharpened in his time with S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint launched himself into the air, going end over end in an organized freefall with limbs pressed close to his torso--

Hawkeye stretched his arm out and, just as he knew would happen, the cool familiarity of metal-covered fingers wrapped tight around his forearm. _I've got you_ ; something never said, but understood soul and blood and muscle deep. And then Tony's fingers flexed, digging into the flesh of Clint's arm, and it finally, finally felt like the archer was home for the first time in weeks, for the first time since he had first been taken.

Tony flew higher, repulsors flaring as bright as a supernova in an endless sky, and he shifted his grip to tuck Clint against his armored side. Then and only then, the blonde relaxed as that familiar red-and-gold arm curled possessively around Clint's middle.

As they picked up speed and height, the Earth falling away far below, Iron Man extended an arm towards the main HYDRA building and one of the many hidden compartments that lay within the suit opened.

A tiny, chrome-plated missile lifted from the black depths and, with a barest whisper of sound, launched away to fly unerringly towards the heavily fortified building.

The concussion from the resulting blast tossed them both dozens of feet back, even though Clint knew that Tony had braced for the impact, for the wave--but, even then, it had not mattered. Not when Tony was furious enough to bring out his more heavy-duty weapons. Not when Tony was bent on utter and complete destruction, on annihilation.

Though Tony hadn't yet lifted the Iron Man mask, Clint already knew, because Clint's knowledge of Tony was without match, that the genius' dark eyes would be hard--flinty and ruthless and nearly black in his rage, and never once would the inventor consider offering mercy. Not now. Not _ever_ when it concerned his lover.

Clint knew, too, what thought would be running through the brunette's mind: _Don't take my stuff._

Smirking, Hawkeye leaned in close and pressed a kiss to one gold-plated cheek. "Took you long enough, asshole," he greeted and hooked an arm over Tony's neck to press himself closer to gold and hotrod red metal.

"Sorry, Robin Hood. Decided to stop by the drive-thru on the way here," Tony shot back and finally--finally, _finally_ \--lifted the bright plate that had hid his face from view.

The blonde's smirk turned into a full-fledged grin at that, returned easily with a "Better be In-N-Out, Tin Man, or you're sleeping on the couch." before grasping Tony's chin, the other's beard prickling familiarly against his fingertips, and sealed his mouth over the engineer's in a hungry, possessive kiss.

_Clint was home._


	2. spread your wings, baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which the name 'Hawkeye' is taken literally.

"...do I even wanna know what happened?"

It gave testament to all of the weird things that the Avengers had to put up with on a near-daily basis that Tony didn't even bat an eyelash upon entering the kitchen and finding his lover sporting a giant pair of tawny, feathered wings.

Instead, the insomniac zeroed in on the coffeepot like the caffeine addict he was, pouring himself a full cup from the brew that JARVIS had made for him upon his arrival. Taking a sip from his mug, brain finally waking a bit, Tony's eyes cleared a bit more as he looked Clint over with a sharp, assessing gaze.

"Mr. _Fantastic_ , Hank, and our own resident Dr. Jekyll. Supervillains of the universe beware: the Terrible Threesome have combined their powers," Clint quipped as he made a face and pushed away a plate of breadcrumbs that Dummy had helpfully set before him.

Hiding a smirk behind the rim of his cup, Tony couldn't resist asking, "To become Captain Planet and take pollution down to zero?"

The Look that Clint gave to Tony in reply was pure, _you're sleeping on the couch for a week, you fucker, and fuck you--I don't care if it's your mansion_.

"But, seriously, how'd you suddenly become Birdman? I mean, sure, I get that you're Hawkeye, but this seems a little extreme for the sake of an alias," Tony continued easily, ignoring the Look because he knew that there was no way Clint would actually give up sprawling possessively over Tony at night for a week.

Grimacing as Dummy next placed a plate of birdseed before him, Clint pushed away the new foodstuff before giving the dark-haired inventor a sideways glance. "I was just mindin' my own business--"

"You were duct diving again, weren't you?"

"--and _somehow_ ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. There was this explosion and a bright light, and then... I had wings when I woke up."

Tony gave a soft, noncommittal sound at that as he continued idly sipping at his coffee. His own head tilted to the side in a vaguely avian gesture, and the relaxed billionaire began to tap-tap-tap at his arc reactor as Tony's thoughts raced.

While it was easy enough to see that Clint was dealing with the new appendages as best he could, there was still a tightening around the corners of the archer's eyes that gave lie to the seemingly casual body language. 

It was that small tic, that breaching of the mask that had taken Tony and Clint a very long time to learn--for both were dangerously fortified, hiding weaknesses behind dangerous defenses--that small tic that told Tony that Clint _wasn't_ all right. Not at all.

Quirking a small smile, Tony set his mug on the marbletop counter before making his way towards the blonde. Dipping his head down, the engineer cupped the nape of Clint's neck with his fingers, nails lightly digging, and stole a slow, leisurely kiss--taking his time in his exploration of Clint's mouth as the archer gave a hungry growl and pressed back, obviously greedy for more. There was something within that gesture that tightened Tony's chest, and his hold upon Clint's nape became firmer in turn.

"C'mon, nightingale. While the Terrifying Threesome run tests on the samples that I'm sure you had to give them, let's see if we can get you to sing in the meantime."

*

Later, Tony found himself sprawled upon his back: hips moving in tandem with Clint's as the blonde rode him--Clint taking his own pleasure, neck bared vulnerably as his head tilted back, breaths coming in soft and broken gasps of air--it was then, when Tony's hands settled reassuringly over the archer's hips, fingers leaving bruises as Clint picked up the pace--riding harder and faster--

It came when Clint finally found his climax, crying out shamelessly in his pleasure as his wings snapped out and _stretched_ and haloed Clint in bronze--

When Clint looked down, eyes burning with lust, that Tony finally realized just how vulnerable, how open, he was.

And didn't care.

It was necessary now.


	3. sleeping beauty ain't got nothin' on you, sweetheart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Clint waits for Tony to wake up after the Civil War.

They thought that Clint waited because he was the leader of the West Coast Avengers and Tony Stark had finally, finally, _finally_ agreed to join a team again. So many things had tumbled about, events spiralling out of control--a snowballing clusterfuck where everyone around Tony could only stand back and watch the normally composed man struggle to stay afloat.

So there had been quiet relief when Iron Man had said 'yes,' hope that _this_ would be the starting points where rifts could heal and friendships could mend now that the Civil War was coming to a close.

There had been so many losses, so many regrets, so many decisions made that could never, _never_ be taken back--and then there Tony was, in the thick of things and trying to do what he thought was best.

And each time Clint had seen him, there had been such _pain_ in the genius' gaze. A little more grey in his hair. A bit more whiskey in his tumbler.

A bit more stumbling in his speech.

Now...

 _Now_ , Clint sat at the bedside of the normally vibrant, constantly moving, _brilliant_ man--and, fuck, if his eyes felt hot, then no one was around to see him finally bow his head under the weight of his grief--no one was around to see Clint reach out and intertwine his fingers with Tony's cold, unresponsive ones. No one was around to see Clint's form hunch forward, forehead resting on Tony's collarbone as he listened to the quiet hiss and hum of the machines that were currently keeping the genius alive.

...and wasn't that fucking ironic.

Clint closed his eyes tightly, breathing carefully regulating so that it did _not_ stutter out in quiet little sobs. 

His eyes clenched even more desperately shut, hands now clinging to the comatose body beneath his own, and he _focused_ \--listening so greedily for that familiar, steady pulse of the other's arc reactor. Listening for the sound, that comforting presence, that he had fallen asleep to countless nights.

"Please, Tony. Fucking _please_ ," the archer whispered, voice raw and hoarse and filled with such desperate need. "You were never fucking inadequate--not to me. _So wake the fuck up, you asshole._ "

The body beneath his own remained still, so much empty meat--and without that stunningly brilliant mind as the driving force, Tony was truly gone: the vegetable left behind and Clint wanted the mind, the personality that glittered like diamonds in the sunlight.

He was clutching at Tony's hand hard enough now to drain blood from those amazingly agile fingers, grabbing hold--because this was his fucking lifeline--to where his fingernails were drawing blood, leaving behind crescent moon-shaped wounds.

So deeply immersed in his internal monologue of _please please please please please_ , Clint never noticed when Pepper slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind herself. Didn't hear the familiar clicking of her heels against the tile floor, remained numb to everything until the willowy woman gently placed a hand upon Clint's muscled shoulder.

"...I've lost so many people. But I can't lose him, Pep. Not him."

Pepper's hand settled more firmly upon Clint's shoulder, a solid weight, and there was an unyielding steel in her voice when the redhead managed to gain control of herself to reply: "You won't. We'll bring him back--he gave us the tools to do so. Now come on, Clint. We have work to do."

Clint's fingers tightened once more around Tony's unresponsive ones before finally standing: shoulders squaring and gaze turning flinty, he followed Pepper out of the hospital room.

He had a mission to accomplish, after all, as the PA had pointed out: bring Tony back (so Clint could kick his ass from here to Budapest for being such a colossal idiot before finally fucking the brunette senseless in a 'welcome home, Tin Man' greeting.)


	4. i'll lay you down, lay you down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which there is sex. (And Adam Lambert's "Nirvana" is kept on repeat.)

_give yourself to the rush..._

Moonlight-gilded shadows shifted slowly through the bedroom, creeping slowly across the floors--inch by inch as moment by moment breathed out and escaped into the endlessness that was the night.

And there, on the bed--

They surged, Clint thrusting slowly forward in an effortlessly unconscious movement that took up the entirety of his body in a graceful movement that always took Tony's breath away: pinpoint, instinctive precision that never, _never_ missed.

With his face limed in the cool blue light of the arc reactor, Clint's expression was razor-sharp and focused, gaze hawk-like as he watched the play of pleasure flickering over his lover's face: pupils blown wide and mouth slack in lust, Tony gave a soft, broken moan as the blonde once again pushed forward.

And Tony lifted to meet each thrust--legs wrapping tight around Clint's waist, drawing the archer closer so that the sharp wings of their hips pressed and rubbed and _hurt_ with each and every time Clint snapped his hips forward. But there was something so primally delicious about it, the pain--a reminder to both over the closeness, the intimacy of the moment--and the brunette could do nothing except draw Clint that much closer.

Fingers tangling, hands pinned high over Tony's head, Clint knew that he loved this most because _he_ was the only thing that the man beneath him was allowed to cling oh-so desperately to, knew that slicked skin would slide, muted slapping with every renewed _push push push push_ forward--

And with Tony bowing his back, spine this mathematically gorgeous arch, perfect in every detail and every angle--

Clint wanted to be _deeper_ until they melded and blended and ran, one into the other, so that he'd always be a part of, within, connected to the genius beneath him.

"Mine," Clint whispered huskily as the moon rose, pregnantly full, outside their window and latched his teeth over the collarbone he had marked many times before now.

And Tony fell apart.


	5. I've Never Been Perfect | But Neither Have You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Tony discovers 'Aaron Cross.'

It had all started with a bit of curiosity, honestly.

Clint had finally been called away on a new mission from Fury, and the archer had (grudgingly) left Tony's bed for the first time in… quite a while, actually. It was easier to settle into whatever the hell it was that they had with fucking, connected intimately through the physical--no words were needed to bullshit things: easier to convey them through glances. Through touch.

(Or at least that was what Tony tried to convince himself of.)

But Clint was back at S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ, and Tony was alone and bored--and finding himself genuinely curious about this new lover that he had settled in with. It wasn't often that the genius decided to be exclusive, but… Clint. And with the bruises that lay peppered over the billionaire's collarbone and jawline, well… it seemed that Clint pretty much felt the exact same way, anyway.

So it was boredom--with a dash of curiosity--that made Tony hack into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s servers (while making a mental note to talk to the Director about it later because, really, this was just pathetic; it was as if they weren't even trying!) and puttered about until he came across Hawkeye's files.

What Tony found was certainly… enlightening.

About Clint, his history--and if the inventor ever came across the Swordsman, Tony would have no problem whatsoever repulsoring him straight through a wall, the fucking bastard--and yet it was the various aliases that Clint had assumed through his years as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent--a government agent--that intrigued the brunette the most. The folder on 'William Brandt' was skimmed through, and several points of interest popped out at Tony, but…

It was the folder entitled 'Operation Outcome' that finally made the genius pause.

While it was true that Tony's primary contracts had been with the DoD, that didn't mean that the CIA had never approached him for a toy or two during his illustrious career as the Merchant of Death. And the brunette had happily delivered because Tony had learned from an early age--sitting at papa's knee, so to speak--just how important it was to have your fingers in as many pies as possible.

So he had danced a little with the Intelligence Agency--here and there, quick-stepped routines that soon enough ended--but Tony was also a genius who liked having knowledge: hoarded information in the worst way possible, and it was during one of the times when he had his ear pressed to the keyhole that he had heard (briefly, nothing detailed, nothing specific) about Operation Blackbriar. Operation Treadstone. Operation Outcome.

…which Clint had apparently been a part of.

 _Aaron Cross_.

It was a nice sounding name, almost… knightly, maybe--reminded Tony a bit of the paladins from the stories that he had read once upon a time. It was a name that worried the genius, too, though--because Tony had also picked up rumors about just what this particular agent had gotten up to in the field. Unsettled now, the dark-eyed engineer rubbed absently at one of the many bruises that Clint had left on his collarbone, gaze going a bit hazy as he considered whether or not it was a good idea to bring up the whole file.

In the end, the decision wasn't all that hard to make.

"Put it out on the holo screens, JARVIS," Tony ordered, hands dropping away from Clint's mark so that he could gesture, fingers flicking with indolent grace, through the pages--the files that came up, the huge amount of data that had been collected about the various black ops programs and the agents--one in particular--that had been assembled.

It didn't take long before the inventor's hands stilled.

"…are you getting this, JARVIS?" he eventually asked, voice tight in the silence of the bedroom as Tony finally stopped on one specific page. The skin around his eyes had gone tight with fury at what he read, jaw tensing and flexing as he tried to contain his rage as best he could.

"Indeed I am, sir. And it is quite worrisome, as you have surmised," JARVIS answered promptly, British vowels and consonants crisp and clear and utterly professional--but Tony had been the one to program the AI unit, and he could easily pick up on the concern that threaded through the undertone.

That one page continued to glare out at him, facts and various sets of data data and numbers-- _five_ ; why did it always have to be five with Tony?--damning evidence, yeah, and if the CIA ever got wind that one of their top agents had jumped ship to join S.H.I.E.L.D…. it didn't matter that S.H.I.E.L.D. was the best at what they did. Didn't matter that they were the premiere intelligence agency in the world, run by the God amongst spies. Didn't matter, not any of it. Because the people who had so easily scrapped their programs to try and save face…. all that would matter to them would be Clint's 'termination.'

If word got out about who Hawkeye _might_ be--

Clint would again have to run hard and fast, constantly looking over his shoulder.

Tony brought his fingers up to his collarbone again, rubbing at Clint's possessive claiming, bruise dark against his skin--nearly black because of the attention that the archer had paid to it once they were settled, languid and satiated, in Tony's bed.

Decision made, Tony's mouth pursed slightly before ordering, "Bury it. Delete everything on every server you can find. Make copies and put it on the private server--the one with the Iron Man specs--and encrypt it with the highest possible security clearance. I don't want _anything_ about Aaron Cross to pop up. _Anywhere_. Scrap it, raze it to the ground--do whatever you need to, JARVIS, to blot out the fact that Aaron Cross even existed. I want it _gone_ from everywhere except in our database."

"Very good, sir."

Only someone who was exceptionally familiar with the AI would be able to pick up on the edge of satisfaction within the AI's tone of voice; Tony, after all, wasn't the only one who had grown fond of the perfect marksman.

With one last glance at the picture of Aaron Cross--at _Clint_ \--Tony turned away so that JARVIS could begin the process of burying the files deep so that no one would ever again see them.


	6. disciplined.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which [certain yoga photoshoots](http://www.yogadork.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/01/robert-downey-jr-yoga-vinnie-marino.jpg) are direct inspirations.

Discipline.

It's not a word oftentimes associated with Tony Stark--irresponsible, self-obsessed asshole seems to be the most popular description for the Man of Iron--but Clint is privileged enough to see otherwise.

He watches from the corner, bow and quiver set aside for now, eyes lowering to half-mast in slow-burning hunger as the yoga instructor moves around the brunette: the master only has to make the most minute of adjustments, tiny changes that only the most experienced in the art might spot. 

The master stands just behind Tony's outstretched leg, one hand on the billionaire's upper thigh while the other lifts Clint's lover's arm just the smallest amount higher--and there. Utter perfection.

Muscles defined, arms and belly and legs so deliciously on display, posture centered and solid, and with dark brown eyes focused inward: here is a man in complete and utter control of himself. _Disciplined._

The longer Tony holds his pose, the more Clint's arousal grows--

Because this is the side that Clint has always seen, no matter what others have said to the contrary. This is the side that Clint was able to glimpse, however briefly, while going over the mission reports after Tony had managed to escape from the Ten Rings.

This is a man who defied an entire nation in denying them the Iron Man suit--beneath the jokes and the mocking and the show that Tony had felt the need to put on; this is _the_ man who stood strong against months of torture, fortitude never once crumbling--the man ruthless enough to take his revenge without losing sight of that inner core, a moral code that Tony followed religiously though no one seemed to truly understand what those rules truly were.

_Disciplined._

And Clint shifts subtly, finding even his comfortable pair of sweat pants just a bit too restricting at the moment, and Tony finally turns his head to meet the archer's blue gaze with his dark one.

The desire that Clint sees is staggering: enough that the blonde man stumbles--not much, just alittle--and his arousal burns that much brighter, that much more deeper, that much more intensely.

Though Tony looks away at the yoga master's touch, head once more facing forward, Clint knows that that control will soon enough be relinquished and Tony will forego his discipline to instead fuck and be fucked by the only person he would willingly let go of that control for:

And it will be so incredibly worthwhile. For them both.


	7. give and take and need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which there is more sex (and musing upon 'need').

Clint had never really thought of himself as a 'beard man,' but there was something seriously sexy about the way that Tony's breath stuttered as he ran his teeth over that sharp line between wiry hair and rough skin, tongue brushing the beginnings of the older man's five o'clock shadow. The satisfaction only grew, however, when Tony groaned quietly and tilted his head back--silently asking for more. 'Mine,' Clint mouthed against cologne-scented skin, and he bit down.

The gratification--masculine smugness limed, edged thoroughly--shifted and turned darker, that much more possessive even as Tony arched to press that much closer: sweat-slick skin beneath the archer's calloused fingertips, hard muscle in stark contrast to a woman's softer curves--

And Clint _liked_ seeing bruises from his fingers over the sharp arches of Tony's hips, _liked_ the way that the engineer's arc reactor would leave behind marks over Clint's own chest, _liked_ the way that his skin would feel rubbed and raw as that coal-dark beard moved against the blonde's skin. Something primal, something needed--the way that Tony would look at Clint and everything in the world finally just _clicked_ and fell into place.

He liked the way that he'd tease the brunette and Tony would leave behind a set of teethmarks in retaliation, liked how he'd _thrust and thrust and thrust_ into that solid body beneath him, rough and hard and unrelenting in that instinctive claiming ( _mine mine mine_ ) and Tony--Tony would just lock his ankles at the small of Clint's back, smirk ever-present and eyes alight with challenge.

'Mine,' Clint would whisper, possessive in his love because too many things (people) had been taken from him, and this man was someone that Clint _could not_ lose--and yet, through it all, there too was an equal claim made:

Tony's bed that Clint would sleep in, resting without nightmares as the steady glow of the inventor's arc reactor provided a safe harbor through the long stretch of night; Tony's clothes that Clint would sometimes borrow (but never return), letting the comforting, familiar scent of _Tony Tony Tony_ fill his senses the whole day through; Tony's bikes that Clint would ride out on, black asphalt stretching out before him while Black Sabbath and the brunette's husky voice filling his ears--

Scent and touch--sheer _presence_ \--a necessary thing for Clint nowadays, the taste of Tony's skin upon his tongue a reassurance that the other was _still here_ after each and every dangerous mission: _This man--this is a man that I cannot live without._ Because each time Tony has looked at Clint, the genius has barreled through each and every defense--somehow, some _why_ \--to see the brokenness within...

_And still wanted._

No, nothing soft, something feminine--nothing that was willing to relent, even as Tony's fingers buried in the cropped strands of Clint's hair, grip tugging demandingly even as his nails scraped over the archer's scalp: give and take and take and take, even as Clint's teeth dug in harder, finally breaking skin to press scarlet copper against his tongue, and Clint knew that there was no going back--

Even as he slid himself home with a hungry thrust of his hips, burying himself to the hilt--no stopping, just sinking into tight heat and perfection, Tony arching up greedily beneath him, and Clint's name a hoarse cry.

Give and take and take and need and _mine_.


	8. curiosity and the cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Clint figures out Iron Man's secret identity.

People had always seemed to go out of their way to remind Clint Barton that curiosity killed the cat.

Clint, in answer, had been equally quick to remind them that satisfaction brought it back.

And it had also, _equally_ , always been present: that niggling prompting in the back of his mind, egging the blonde on--push the big red button, ignore the various warnings posted all around said button--the desire to see what that bright, crimson button did overcoming most everything else because, when all was said and done, Clint wanted to _know_. Knowledge was power, after all, and if there was one thing that the blonde had learned--the hard way, as most of his life lessons had gone--was that the more that you knew, the better your advantage. And if everyone else didn't realize that you knew? Perfect, that's what that was.

But, back to the original issue:

Curiosity killed the cat.

...and Clint was _curious_.

*

No one really had any information on Iron Man. Basic stuff, yeah--what the suit was capable of (...for the most part), the fact that the man moonlighted as Tony Stark's bodyguard when not caught up in the whole superhero shindig, knew his way around the tech that surrounded them all--and also headed the Avengers. And even though Clint trusted Iron Man with his life (had even put his money where his mouth was on more than one occasion), the fact still remained that the archer had no real idea just _who_ the man in the metal suit really was.

Leaning back in the chair he'd snagged for himself, Hawkeye pushed until only two legs remained on the tile floor beneath him: booted heels lazily crossed on the tabletop, hands clasped over his uniform-clad belly, the ex-carnie just... watched. _Watched_ , because it was always the smallest, overlooked details that clued a person in to the bigger picture.

"Penny for your thoughts?" the still-masked man asked drily, not looking up from the work scattered over the scarred wood of the table, equally scarred and calloused hands--gauntlets finally removed--fiddling with the delicate innards of part of his armor.

"Why don't you just let Stark fix that instead?" Clint asked lightly, watching as nimble, knowing fingers plucked a tiny screwdriver from his organized mess, tightening gears and bolts and wires, getting a soft whirr of machinery working in answer. "He was the one that designed the armor originally, yeah?"

A muted, tinny snort came from within the gold and crimson helmet, the sound edging into sardonic--and Clint liking the other man all the more for that wordless reply. Eventually, however, Iron Man verbally responded in turn: "And would _you_ go to your employer over every small issue that came up when you had the skills necessary to deal with the problem yourself? Mr. Stark's a busy man, after all."

"I suppose you have a point, Tin Man. So many months to get through in the Playboy calendar and so little time to go twelve for twelve again this year," Clint quipped back, baring his teeth in a mockery of a grin.

If anything, the suited man's voice became that much drier, amusement threading through the tone of his voice even as he gestured for Clint to give him his bow and quiver so that he might look it over for any damage sustained during their latest mission. "Jealous, birdbrain?"

As Iron Man brought Clint's weapons in closer for inspection, his hand moved just enough for a thin, barely-there scar over tanned knuckles to finally catch in the light, gleaming milky pale for just a moment before angles and shadows once more hid the long ago wound from sight.

But sight was not the only sense that Hawkeye relied upon--

And Clint _remembered_ how that scar felt beneath his fingertips, even while his grip remained firm--unyielding, unintimidated--as he shook hands with the world's best technological genius: refusing to back down, even as something flashed within Tony Stark's dark eyes while Clint met his gaze evenly. A smirk then, on both their parts, and Clint's thumb brushed over that barely noticeable scar one last time as their handshake broke and ended.

In the end, as always, it was the smallest details that offered a person the bigger picture.

"Yeah," Clint answered easily enough, raising an eyebrow at the masked man when Iron Man's attention shifted back to the blonde archer at Clint's reply. "Those girls wouldn't have any idea of how to have some _real_ fun."

He could just picture that eyebrow lifting in reaction to that particular statement and, grinning Cheshire-wide, the blonde let his chair come back down so that he might reach out, cupping a hand over the cool metal of the suit even as Clint pressed his mouth against the jawline of Iron Man's helmet.

"Hit me up if you ever get bored of them, Tony."

There was silence for several seconds, even as Iron Man--Tony Stark's--talented, calloused, _scarred_ fingers rubbed lightly over Clint's bow. A pause then, amusement even more evident, and Tony finally answered:

"Now sound good enough for you, Nancy Drew?"

"Now sounds fuckin' _fantastic_ ," Clint readily answered, grin widening that much further because, when all was said and done, satisfaction most assuredly brought that damn cat back--

Because Clint hated not knowing, and it was all so much _better_ as Tony finally removed the Iron Man mask, Clint watching as amusement quirked the genius' mouth upwards in a lopsided smirk, gaze meeting Clint's once more as that _something_ again flickered in his eyes.


	9. eat your peas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which both Tony and Clint might as well be five years-old.

One of those gala-type dinners, everyone dressed to the nines and on their best behavior: and Tony was _bored_. Bored, bored, bored. Mind-numbingly _bored_. 

Not enough alcohol and too many politicians coaxed his attention into wandering, though distracted 'Mmhmm's every so often kept the twits from noticing that the genius inventor's focus had never truly been upon their conversations (practice made perfect and Tony made Not Paying Attention into an artform)--and the only saving grace for the night came from the fact that some junior agent at S.H.I.E.L.D. had (unwisely) placed Clint next to the sloe-eyed brunette for the dinner.

"...isn't that General Ross?" the archer leaned in to murmur during one Senator's particularly long-winded speech about how truly necessary Tony's company had been to the military and how _disappointed_ he had been when the inventor had turned his attention elsewhere--and Tony, having blocked out the old man's conversation two words in, slanted his gaze towards the direction that Clint had signed, eyes narrowing dangerously as he caught sight of the general that had been the thorn in the side of his science bro for _far_ too long.

"Indeed it is," Tony drawled back softly, easily dismissing the Senator in favor of something that was finally so much more _interesting_. Expression suddenly turning coy, Tony lightly tapped his plate with a finger--making several peas on the bone-white surface jump a little with each tap--as he looked up at Clint from beneath the black velvet of his lashes. "A hundred for every one that hits, Katniss."

Blue eyes suddenly lighting with both mischief and challenge, Clint's grin turned devil-may-care. "You're on, Shellhead," he answered: because, while Clint would have happily picked up the challenge for free... well, a little something extra made it all that much more _fun_.

Loading up his spoon with the first of his 'missiles,' the marksman catapaulted the small green weapons away with a quiet "Fire in the hole!"--Tony snorting in laughter--before they hit the general, one after another. General Ross flinched and immediately jumped to his feet, to which Tony and Clint gave the older man their most angelic expressions yet.

Seconds later, both Avengers felt an all-too-familiar leather-clad hand slapping them upside the head simultaneously. "Dumbasses," Fury ground out before heading back to his own table--resigned to the fact that neither fully-grown manchild would be stopping anytime soon. As well as plotting the punishment of the moron who decided to seat Tony and Clint next to one another for the state dinner.

Undaunted, Tony glanced sidelong at Clint once Fury was again seated. "Round two?"

"Round two," the blonde agreed, smirking widely.


	10. the end of an era

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which there is a shift and Pepper is the first to truly notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small prompt fill from LJ's Avengerkink.
> 
> PROMPT:  
> http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/12672.html?thread=28039296#t28039296  
> \-- Saw this image, you'll have to scroll down for it.
> 
> http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/jeremy-renner?before=1338637423
> 
> Could just be me, but it really looks like Tony got caught on camera while he was petting Clint.
> 
> (http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4zlaqKZci1ro1xvyo1_250.jpg  
> http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4zlaqKZci1ro1xvyo2_500.jpg)

There was a sense of finality--the end of an era, creeping slowly towards an inevitable death--as Pepper Potts paused while going through last evening's photos from dinner: a relaxed affair, Tony insisting that the Avengers get together and head off to a restaurant for some 'bonding time' over dinner. Most of the others had been leery... until Tony had mentioned that he had reserved the entire restaurant for the night. 

Something so like Tony, Pepper thought with a soft snort and a shake of her head; ensuring the team's comfort in the most extravagant manner possible.

Pepper hadn't gone last night, wanting the team to have the chance to get to know each other in their own private way--relaxing amongst one another, teammates now but hopefully closeknit friends soon enough. Perhaps--but only _perhaps_ \--if she had gone, too, she would have seen then what was blatantly obvious now.

Tony wasn't normally a tactile person, distant and hands-off with most people--unless there was trust. Unless there was genuine interest.

And there, in the picture: that trust and that interest, Tony's eyes soft and his face intent as his fingers toyed with the short hairs at the nape of Clint's neck. Clint sitting, obviously comfortable--used to--that slight touch, smile lazy as he glanced sidelong at the genius engineer. Sexuality and contentedness, an edge slipping into both of their expressions--but Pepper _knew_ Tony well enough to be certain that neither men were sleeping with each other.

Yet.

A picture spoke a thousand words, and this photo spoke volumes. There was disappointment, yes, for Pepper did love Tony. But... there was a softness here, in this one picture, that had been lacking in their own relationship--the dancing between them that had gone on for months, for years, but... there it was. Between Clint and Tony.

Lingering there, just beyond the disappointment, was sadness--resigned, in a way, for what would eventually be coming: but Pepper Potts was nothing if not competent, efficient--and pragmatic.

She closed out the pictures' folder, pushing out her chair to stand and smoothing the back of her neatly-pressed skirt along the way. Gathering together her paperwork for today, Pepper squared her shoulders and slipped down into Tony's lab.

"Mr. Stark," the CEO murmured as she held out the stack of new contracts that she needed Tony to sign--and the man paused at that, hesitation in his stance, before quirking a small smile at the redhead with regret briefly flashing in his dark gaze.

"...Miss Potts."


End file.
